


La main, de hand; les doigts, de fingres

by solequeene



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Drunk Sex, Fingerfucking, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-29
Updated: 2011-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-26 16:06:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solequeene/pseuds/solequeene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>France and England finger the other at the same time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	La main, de hand; les doigts, de fingres

**Author's Note:**

> De-anon from hetalia_kink. The prompt reminded me of the scene in "Henry V" where Catherine wants to learn English. Why, yes, I have a whimsical mind. This is a betaed and polished version of the story already posted in the meme. Betaed by doomy_slasher.

Wine and garlic, England thinks as he licks his lips and hastily unbuttons France’s shirt. France makes him think of wine and garlic, perfume and sunlight, the Seine and Palais Royal, and he hates him and wants him all at once. Stupid frog. Stupid hands and blond hair and mouth, his mouth that feels like it’s everywhere at once, teasing at his chest and neck and back to his lips again.

They are drunk, and they both know it. They are drunk and horny and fall into each other’s arms with a familiarity they will deny when sober.

His hands find France’s belt and the black trousers slide down his hips, no underwear in sight, only dark blond curls and pink cock. He takes it in his hand, heavy, throbbing, and hot, and strokes, up and down, with a little flick of his wrist (bony wrist, calloused fingertips, bitten nails) that makes France moan. He moans prettily, like a girl, England thinks, as he’s thrown onto the bed.

France is quick to take his clothes off (being careful not to rip them, though he threatens to do it, “Rags that shame all that is beautiful and noble, Angleterre”) and England finds himself fisting the soft, mass-produced cotton-blend coverlet as he arches into France’s sweaty body.

They kiss again and their cocks rub against each other, hands drifting, touching, following the well-known paths of each other’s flesh. He wraps his legs around France, ankles crossed, perfect friction. He rolls them over and grinds down on France, scratches his chest, tugs at the hair there, curly and dark gold, like the hair between his legs. He likes it this way. They like it this way. They have hate-fucked each other for one hundred years, one thousand years, and will continue to do it for the rest of their very long lives. There’s never been sweet, languorous love-making for them, only explosive passion and a claiming of each other, again and again.

_I will have it all mine; and, Kate, when France is mine and I am yours, then yours is France, and you are mine._

Somehow they kneel, chest to chest, cock-heads brushing against each other. France is the first to take the next step: he shoves three fingers into England’s mouth and orders (orders!) him to lick them. England, after waiting a few pointed seconds, agrees(he refuses to just obey a frog’s orders, not since good King Edward) and sucks the digits, he licks at them, feels the roughness of a warrior’s skin, the kind that no lotion or beauty treatment can ever erase. He likes that, too, the scars on France’s body and the rough skin of his hands. It’s good, he thinks, to have solid, touchable proof that they haven’t always been mild and polite nations, that once they fought hard, and fucked harder, and conquered the world.

France pulls his fingers out of England’s mouth, reaches around him and lets them ghost over the crack of his arse. He uses his other, dry, hand to knead at England’s plump flesh and spread him open. He doesn’t tease him. He simply slides in, three fingers at once, and England suppresses a flinch. They know each other too well to fake a pace and care that neither of them need.

England rolls his hips, arse moving to meet France’s fingers as he rests his head on France’s round shoulder, pressing lazy kisses to his neck, pink tongue lapping at the sweat there.

France finger-fucks him efficiently, harshly, fingers twisting and circling, looking for his prostate, scissoring him just right. He’s being selfish, just drinking in France’s heat, enjoying his taut abdomen against his dick, his fingers filling him up and making him want to moan like a two penny whore. He does moan, and France’s hand moves faster, harder, deeper, and he thinks sometime they should try the whole fist.

Not now, though. He moves away from France’s neck and raises his own hand to his mouth. He spits on his fingers, licks them, spits on them again. Contrary to popular belief, he’s not a heartless bastard. He doesn’t want the frog’s ass to bleed all over the room.

He too reaches around and spreads the other’s ass, rubs his wet fingers up and down the crack, feeling France’s hole twitch every time he strokes it, demanding. He pushes one finger in, an easy job. He pulls out and slides in two fingers and then three, France is tight but flexible, pliant. The fingers inside him go still, waiting. He flicks his wrist and spread his digits (flesh resists and France whimpers), and pushes deep. He pushes as far as his fingers will go and then starts thrusting. The old in-and-out.

He hits France’s prostate and France hits his and they are in synch, wonderful rhythm and cock against cock, mouth on mouth and I have known you since the beginning. You, you, always you. They don’t talk. They don’t lose their breath over endearments and sweet nothings. They are over that, over everything and anything and nothing, because they are Britannia and Gaul and they have always been this way.

England comes first, pearly strings between their bodies. He clenches down and France grunts and comes too, pressed against England’s thin body. They collapse, tired, sated, and sore, spread open and very much in love, like always and never.

They don’t talk. They never do. Instead, they fall asleep together (green Calais, stony Dover), twisted around each other as they dream.

**Author's Note:**

> The line that says "I will have it all mine" is part of Henry's courting in "Henry V".  
> The "old in and out", while not drastically original, stuck with me after reading "A Clockwork Orange" by Anthony Burgess.  
> The "good king Edward" is Edwards III, under whose reign English became more common between the elite, the Cross of St. George was adopted as national symbol and, of course, the Hundred Years War begun.  
> I've never been to Calais, but the pictures show it as a green and loverly place. I apologize for any geography fail.  
> In my headcanon, Britannia is England and Gaul is France.


End file.
